Thunderstorm . . .
Do I need to add words?
Why do we write, to say what we already know?
Why do we read, what we already feel . . .
The rain pours down . . .
And there I go again,
Distracting myself from the true feelings,
To recreate on the page – only, just words . . .
The rain pours harder, a downpour of power, a cooling of air, thunder crackling louder . . .
Tree-carried breeze, through leaves wet and cooled, meets me through my window, scent . . .
Scent . . .